


Until the Earth is Free

by ShipperInParadise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, F/M, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other, Prophetic Dreams, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipperInParadise/pseuds/ShipperInParadise
Summary: Enjolras stared at him "You're saying that we were all part of the June Rebellion?""I know it's mad. I would hardly believe myself If I didn't know it was true." He knew perfectly well that he sounded insane. He would hardly blame Enjolras for turning and running away. Most people in this situation would.Again, Enjolras did nothing but stare. Grantaire grew uncomfortable under his gaze quickly, a feat which had never occurred in his old life."If you do not believe me, th-""I do.""I-I'm sorry?"  He blinked, unbelieving. Was he truly claiming to..."I believe you. I know you aren't lying." Enjolras looked so honest, so sure. Now it was Grantaire's turn to stare."...why?""Because I had a dream."(AKA, the Reincarnation fic everyone knows and loves)
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Marius Pontmercy/Éponine Thénardier (One-Sided)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter One

Intoxication was not uncommon for Grantaire. In fact, quite the opposite. In his youth he had developed a rather strong habit of indulging in the drink, more so than he should, admittedly, and this habit had carried on from boyhood into his adult years without any sign of waning. It was a despised habit by polite society, but, seeing as Grantaire was hardly part of any society of the sort, that did little to stop him. He was more than content to nurse his drink as he stumbled through life, and those that made the questionable choice to join him in his stumbling encouraged the habit enough to dissolve any hesitations he may have had. Those that disliked his drunkenness would decidedly dislike him sober self, too; he was not such a different man, merely subtler and more conscious of the importance of a verbal filter. If he was hated, he was hated, and Grantaire was resolute in his belief that the drink had nothing to do with it.

Even though he had made his peace with his seemingly permanent state, however, did not mean that he enjoyed the after effects of it. The splitting headaches and rolling waves of nausea that, come the morning after a day spent drowning in a glass can be quite overwhelming, are hardly been enjoyable to any man. Grantaire was thoroughly included in this. Though he was no stranger to waking with a migraine, only to stumble to a window in just enough time to vomit, it had not gotten any easier over the years. This morning was no exception to this rule.

The light was entirely too bright. Even shielded by eyelids, he cringed at the invasion of his eyes. The sun had no right to shine so brightly when it was certainly still early morning. He had fallen asleep at the Musain only hours before. With a groan, Grantaire turned from the attacking light. He could feel a headache brewing, and desperately hoped for at least an hour more in which he could postpone functioning. Unfortunately, he had no such luck. The light had roused him enough that it was evident sleep would not return. With a sigh, he sat up. As soon as he did so, before he had even opened his eyes, the nausea hit him. Grantaire made a sound akin to a dying hound, and slumped back down. There were few moments he regretted drinking, but this was undeniably one of them. Perhaps he could lie for just a moment longer, just long enough to-

“Oh, Jesus!” a woman shrieked, and Grantaire bolted upright. His stomach protested violently to both the shock and the motion, and he promptly vomited onto the floor. Somewhere behind him, the voice from earlier mumbled something that may have been sympathy, but it also may have been disgust. When he finally managed to uncurl himself Grantaire’s eyes found her.

The woman standing in the doorway sent him reeling. Her hair! What had she done to the ends of it? They were a bright, unnatural pink color. And- was she wearing pants? Who had allowed this woman to leave the house in men’s clothing? Surely someone should have stopped her? As if that were not vulgar enough, Grantaire realized with a blush that her entire midsection was exposed. He felt indecent just looking at her; from just under her bust to the top of her pants, the woman’s skin was on display for all to see. Was she a prostitute? No. Grantaire had never known a prostitute to dress like this. Even women of the streets dressed more modestly than the one before him. But… she was familiar. Something deep in Grantaire knew this woman. His eyes narrowed, focusing on her face. All she did was stare back at him with slightly fearful, slightly confused eyes.  
“...Musichetta?” It dawned on him all at once. He had seen her with Joly and Lesgle.

The woman’s eyes widened. “..do I know you?” she asked.

Grantaire fixed her with a look of confusion. “Of course you do! Now what on Earth are you wearing?”

“Look, buddy, I don’t know who you are, or how you got in here,” she said, pulling something from her pocket. “But you need to leave.”

No one had ever called Grantaire ‘buddy’ before, and he was certain that Musichetta knew exactly who he was. “Is this some sort of ruse?” he asked, standing shakily. She took an uneasy step away, which made him frown. “Did Joly or Lesgle put you up to this?”

Musichetta’s eyes widened even more. “How do you know my boyfriends?”

Boyfriends? The word was strange, but Grantaire didn’t question it. He had more pressing things to worry about. “I must admit, you’re beginning to frighten me,” he told her.

“I need you to leave,” was all she said in response. “Or I’m calling the police.”

At that, Grantaire’s heart jumped. She couldn’t do that! To bring the Guard to the Musain would spell certain death for all of them. They would certainly be executed for treason, every last one of them. “You would not,” he insisted, praying he was right. Certainly she knew that doing so would spell trouble for both her lovers?

“That’s it.” She shook her head, and Grantaire’s heart jumped into his throat.

“Please, Mademoiselle, you must not! Bringing them here will bring ruin for all of us!”

Musichetta didn’t answer. Instead, she began tapping at the object in her hand. Grantaire’s horror began to give way to confusion. What was she doing? A moment later, she brought the object to her ear. “Some guy broke into the Cafe Musain.” Broke in? He had done no such thing. “He isn’t armed. I think he’s hungover. He hasn’t tried to hurt me yet.” Was she… was she talking to someone? It certainly appeared that she thought herself to be doing so. Neither Joly nor Lesgle had mentioned their mistress to be mad, but Grantaire was beginning to wonder if she might be. “I’ll stay here until they arrive. Merci.” She lowered the object, and tapped it once more. Now addressing Grantaire, she said, “The cops are on their way. Just stay there.”

For all he was worth, Grantaire could not figure what to say. She had spoken into a little black rectangle, and now the National Guard was on its way? That seemed unlikely. He stared for a long moment, trying to wring some sense of understanding from the situation. Was he still dreaming? If so, it was particularly vivid. He couldn’t remember the last time he had dreamed of something so strange; all Grantaire’s dreams anymore were filled with golden curls and cerulean eyes, certainly not… whatever this was. Eventually, at a loss for anything else, he looked to her and said, “What is that which you’re holding?”

Musichetta looked at him as though he was the one who had gone mad instead. “Uh huh. Sure buddy. You got any other jokes you wanna get out before they cuff you?”

“I do not jest!” he insisted. “I have never seen something like it before.”

All he received in response was a concerned look. Her brows were drawn tightly together as she stared at him. Grantaire felt like screaming. This whole situation was stranger than he could take, and he was almost certain it was not an alcohol induced hallucination. If one of his friends had thought this to be an amusing way to wake him, he was going to find said friend and wring his neck.

“Hands in the air!” Grantaire whirled around to find a man in a strange black uniform pointing a gun at him. Instantly, he scrambled to his knees.

“Please, Monsieur, don’t shoot!” he begged, looking up at the man with terrified eyes. He was unlike any officer he had ever seen, and the weapon in his hands was just as foreign. Who was he? What did he plan to do with him? How had Musichetta summoned him?

The man advanced, gun still trained on him. He grabbed Grantaire’s hands, and wrenched them behind his back. Grantaire was fairly certain they were trembling, but he was too frightened to be ashamed. Something cold and metal-like was clamped around his wrists, binding them together. “Alright,” said the man, as he hauled him up, “don’t make this difficult. You don’t fight, and I don’t hurt you. Got it?”

Grantaire nodded meekly. His eyes met Musichetta’s pleadingly. “Please. I haven’t done anything,” he told her, as the man began to drag him away. “You know me.” The last thing he saw before he was pulled from the room were her eyes, full of something unidentifiable.


	2. Chapter Two

“He said Chetta was pretty freaked.” Courfeyrac rolled over onto his stomach, looking up from his position on the floor. Outside, snow had begun to fall in tiny little flakes. The window was letting through only the smallest bit of light through its frosted glass, despite it being mid day. “Like, he knew her name. And both of theirs. And he kept acting like he knew her, but she said she’s never seen the guy before.” 

“Maybe he goes to the cafe at the same time we have meetings?” Combferre suggested. “He could have just been drunk and stupid.” 

“Yeah, or he could be, like, a stalker or something!” He looked at Enjolras, and huffed. “Are you even slightly concerned about the fact that some crazy probably wants to make our friends into soup?” From above, Combferre swatted him with his newspaper. 

Enjolras sighed, and lifted his gaze from his laptop. He looked down at Courfeyrac, and asked. “You said they arrested him for trespassing, right?” 

“Yeah. But that-”

“Then, if they arrested him, he isn’t going to make anyone into soup,” he insisted. “People can’t make cannibal soup if they’re in jail.” 

Courfeyrac mumbled something about them probably letting him go, for which he received another swat. 

“Everything is fine, Courf,” Combferre said, voice calm and reassuring. “Promise.” 

After a long sigh, he nodded. “Yeah, probably. I just hate the idea of someone wanting to hurt our friends.”

“I know.” Now it was Combeferre’s turn to sigh. “Me too.” He pushed his glasses up his nose, then went back to reading. 

Eventually, Courfeyrac stood. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk for awhile. Probably check up on Joly and Bossuet. I can bring coffee back after?”

“Yes please.” Enjolras spared him a smile, before going back to whatever was on his screen. Combferre nodded in agreement.

“Okay. One black, one with two creams and a sugar, and one with peppermint syrup, right? Who am I kidding, I know I’m right. That’s been our coffee order since high school.” He chuckled softly, and glanced between the others. “Anything else?”

Combferre shook his head. “Don’t think so. Do you want me to go with you?”

“No thanks.” He shook his head slightly, before leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Enj?’ 

“Hmm? Oh, no, nothing else for me.” Enjolras waved him away without looking up. “Thank you, Courf.” 

“Mmhmm.” Courfeyrac slipped on his coat, and was gone a moment later. The apartment was silent in his wake. 

“You’re more worried about this than you’re letting on.” It was Combeferre who broke the silence. 

Enjolras looked up from his computer with anxious eyes. It was such a drastically different expression than the one he had worn in front of Courfeyrac “Of course I am. So are you.” 

Combeferre nodded slightly. “What are you looking at?”

“Joly said Musichetta described the guy’s clothes as Victorian.” Her exact words had been “like Victorian or some shit. He was in this fucking weird ass coat and asked ME what I was wearing!”, but ‘Victorian’ got the point across well enough for Enjolras. “I was checking to see if there were any conventions or reenactments in the past few days.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous tick he’d picked up years ago and never shaken. 

Combeferre sighed. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” he said, though he himself didn’t sound so sure. 

“I want there to be,” Enjolras said. “I really don’t like the idea of some historically dressing nutjob casing our friends. But everything is pointing to that. None of us know him. There’s no reason for him to be dressed the way he was. And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be in the Musain. The place was closed, and the upstairs room is always locked anyay.”

Once more, Combeferre sighed. “Joly isn’t going to handle this well.” 

“No,” he agreed. 

“But not telling them isn’t an option,” he added, frowning. “They have to know what’s going on for their own safety.”  
Enjolras nodded. “Obviously.” Neither of them looked particularly pleased with the prospect of telling their already anxious friend that he and his partners probably had a psychopathic stalker, and that nobody could explain why. “Did Musichetta get the guy’s name?” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “None of us know who he was.” 

Enjolras was quiet for a long moment. He had a plan forming in his mind, and it showed on his face. 

“Enj? Please tell me you aren’t thinking of something dangerous.”

“I just think that we should figure out who the guy is,” he told him. 

“But that would involve talking to him.” Combeferre gave him a pointed look. “Do you really want to talk to the cannibal soup guy?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “It would all be supervised. It’s not like he could hurt me.” He met Combeferre’s gaze, and said, “Knowing who he is could help us figure out what he wants and how he knows our friends.” 

Combeferre rubbed at his temples like Enjolras was giving him a headache. “This screams ‘bad idea’.”

“It’ll be fine,” he insisted.

“Enj, you know I love you, but you’re delicate.” Enjolras huffed, but Combeferre continued. “According to Chetta, this guy looked like he could go a round with Bahorel.” 

“Fine. Then I’ll take Bahorel with me,” Enjolras said, shrugging. “He can protect me if things go ugly.” Pointedly, he added, “Which they won’t.” 

Sounding somewhat defeated, Combeferre sighed. “You’re going to give Courf an aneurysm when he finds out you went to go see soup guy.” 

“And won’t it be such a relief for him when I come back thoroughly unsouped.” 

“I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”

Enjolras gave him a wry grin. “Have you ever been able to?”

“Sometimes I can,” Combeferre said, almost wistful. “Be careful, Enj. Please.”

“I always am.” 

“Liar. You’re never careful.” 

Enjolras was already grabbing his coat when he faced him to grin. “Maybe that’s why I’m so successful.” 

All Combeferre could do was roll his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like a fateful meeting is about to occur!


	3. Chapter Three

Grantaire was staring at the wall, catatonic. What he had just gone through… There were no words. What could he possibly say to explain what he'd seen? To explain what he had been told, and what he'd been asked? The twenty-first century… It was all too much to process, and his brain was shutting down. There was a large part of him that claimed it was impossible. To travel through time was a fiction, a fairy tale. But there was no other explanation for any of it. Well, other than him being insane, that was. Grantaire just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. Everything he knew was gone. Everybody he loved was gone. The world was a place he couldn't even begin to understand. Death almost sounded better.

There was a gruff voice coming from the entrance to his cell, but Grantaire didn't turn to listen. He truly didn't care. Apparently, the voice cared enough for both of them. A man stepped into his cell, and raised his voice. "You have to come with me. You have a visitor." That piqued Grantaire's interest the slightest bit. Who would want to visit him? Surely no one wanted to come see the crazy man. And that was what he was, was he not? He was mad. That made the most sense. Still, he refused to look at the man.

"We don't have all day. Get up." The man was grabbing Grantaire’s arm before he could protest. He gasped, flinching reflexively. Being touched was too much. The entire world was already spinning out of control, and to have a stranger dragging him about was making the anxiety in his gut boil even higher than it had been. Though he tried to say something, anything, to make the man let him go, the words came out hoarse and broken. Unintelligible by all standards.

Out in the hall, everything was cold. So, so very cold. Grantaire shivered against the barrage of wind that seemed to come from above, even though they were inside. He was baffled, but more than that, he was scared. The man continued to guide him; where was he taking him? Grantaire wouldn’t have been surprised at all to find out that there was no visitor, and that it was no more than a lie to get him to cooperate on his way to his execution. How would they kill him, in the world that made no sense? Would they still hang him? Or, perhaps, would they shoot him with the strange guns he had seen earlier? Whatever it was, he prayed it was quick.

The man was talking again, he realized, and it brought him from his thoughts back into the present. They were standing before a closed door, the lights overhead blinding white. “You’ve got half an hour. Don’t try anything, or we throw your ass back in your cell, got it?” He didn’t, but he nodded. “Good. Come with me.” The man tapped something onto a small device beside the door, and it clicked. The hinges swung open, and- Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat.

“Apollo…” The words slipped past his mouth without permission, barely a whisper. Sitting inside, looking just as stunning as the last time Grantaire had seen him, was Enjolras. How? How was this happening? Grantaire’s head was swimming, his heart racing. Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras. Here. How? “Apollo,” he repeated, louder this time, and took a step forward. Enjolras looked up at him, brow furrowed, and Grantaire’s heart wrenched. The look on his face was one of confusion. Somewhere behind him the guard had shut the door, but he didn’t care. His eyes were unwavering on the man before him.

After a long period of silence, during which Grantaire just stared, Enjolras cleared his throat. “Won’t you sit?” he asked. Grantaire did so instantly. He hadn’t been able to deny Enjolras anything on a good day. How could he possibly do it now?

“Enjolras,” he mumbled, wanting so desperately to reach out and touch. He needed to feel him, to know he was real and in front of him.

Enjolras’ face contorted into something akin to horror. “How do you know my name?”

It was no secret that he didn’t like him. Everyone that knew the pair of them knew that the leader despised Grantaire, and with good reason. He was a drunk. He was a cynic. He contributed nothing to their cause. He caused distraction. He antagonized him every chance he got. It was no wonder that he hated him. But at least he still knew him. Detest him as he might, Enjolras still knew his name and his face. He was aware of him, and for the longest time, that had been enough for Grantaire. He might not have had his Apollo’s affection, but at least he could rest knowing that somewhere in that perfect mind there was a place for him. All of that felt like it was dissolving now. Enjolras was looking at him like he had never seen him before, and Grantaire’s heart was breaking. “I know you can be cruel, Apollo, but please. Spare me this today,” he begged. All that Enjolras did was stare. With every passing moment, the remaining shreds of Grantaire’s hope began to shrivel up and die.

Eventually, Enjolras spoke. “You seem to know me,” he began.

“Of course I do.” His voice was broken.

“And you seem to know my friends,” he continued. Grantaire noticed him run a hand through his hair, and his heart ached. It had been a sign of nervousness for the man as long as he could remember.

All he could bring himself to say was, “They are my friends, as well…”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes slightly. “They claim not to know you.”

“I know,” he mumbled. Musichetta’s confused expression was burned into the back of his mind.

Enjolras hesitated before he spoke again; it was clear that he was taking time to choose his words carefully, to ensure that what he had to say was perfectly constructed. Eventually, he settled on, “How did you meet them?”

“Bahorel,” he answered, softly. Enjolras’s eyes widened, and for the briefest of moments they darted to the opposite side of the room. It was as if he was looking at something that neither of them could see, something behind the wall. “We used to fence together. He introduced me to his friends.”

“...Bahorel has never fenced a day in his life,” Enjolras told him, shaking his head. Grantaire had no idea what to say to that, so instead remained silent. When he received no answer, Enjolras continued. “He boxes. Is that what you meant?”

“No.” He shook his head. “We fenced.”

“I see.” Enjolras pursed his lips, and continued on. “Which friends did he introduce you to?”

Grantaire could still picture the meeting perfectly. The memories should have been fogged by alcohol, but it was such a turning point for him that it was nearly impossible to forget even a detail. “First Courfeyrac, then Joly and Lesgle together, and after that Prouvaire.” With each name he listed, Enjolras’ eyes grew wider. It made Grantaire sick to see him react that way. He should already know these things.

“And then?” he asked, staring at him with intent eyes.

“Courfeyrac suggested that I attend a meeting with him.”

“Meeting?” Enjolras was stiff in his chair. Grantaire almost wanted to laugh. Of course, a meeting. What else?

“Your meeting. Les Amis de l'ABC.”

The look on Enjolras’s face was a mix of so many emotions that Grantaire couldn’t decipher the meaning of it. For the longest time he was silent. It was only after what felt like an eternity that he spoke again. “And once you attended one of our meetings?”

“I met Combeferre and Feuilly, as well as young Gavroche. And… I met you.” That was why he had stayed, after all The others were wonderful, but Enjolras had captivated him from the moment he met him. Grantaire had been well and truly fucked the first time those ocean deep eyes had met his own. They were so full of passion, so full of conviction, and Grantaire had fallen in love at once. Nothing could have persuaded him to leave after that. He cleared his throat, well aware of how much he was blushing, and added a mumbled, “Pontmercy came later.”

Enjolras looked genuinely terrified. His eyes were wide, his hands shaking, his face pale. “I have to go,” he choked. “I- I have to go.” He stood abruptly, his chair clattering backwards.

Grantaire shot up in an instant. He couldn’t leave. If he left, everything would fall apart again. “Enjolras, please.” He reached out to catch his arm, but Enjolras jerked away.

“I have to go,” he repeated, sounding frantic. The door banged open a second later. Two men were in the entrance; one, the guard from before, and the other-

“Bahorel?” Grantaire gasped, eyes widening. How? He didn’t understand. HOW?

“Hands behind your head,” the guard growled, advancing on him as he grabbed the metal shackles from his belt. Grantaire backed away, a plea on his lips.

“Please, I haven’t- I didn’t mean to- don’t hurt me,” he begged, crouching into the corner and squeezing his eyes shut. The guard yanked him up anyway. He couldn’t resist as his wrists were bound once again, and he was forced towards the exit. When he opened his eyes, Enjolras and Bahorel were gone. The world swam back into agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may not be the most well written, but I wanted to get their meeting out there so that the real plot can start.


	4. Chapter Four

“What the fuck?”

“I don’t know.”

“What the FUCK?”

“I don’t KNOW!”

Bahorel sat beside Enjolras in the back of their cab. “How the fuck did he know any of that?” he demanded, for about the eightieth time in a row. Once again, Enjolras shook his head.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras repeated. His eyes were wide, and his hands were shaking slightly. He didn’t understand it any more than Bahorel did. That man… he had known all of them. He knew about their meetings. He knew-

“I haven’t fenced since high school, Enjolras! How the fuck did he know I did that? YOU didn’t even know I did that!”

Enjolras just shrugged helplessly. He hadn’t known that Bahorel fenced, it was true. It was nothing the other man had ever brought up.

“I hate this.” Bahorel shook his head.

“I know.”

“I hate this,” he repeated.

“I know,” Enjolras repeated. “You think I don’t hate it, too?” He looked down at his shoes, and mumbled, “I didn’t even get his name.”

Bahorel, gently, gripped his shoulder. “Hey. I know that voice. That's the ‘Enjolras thinks he fucked up’ voice. Quit it. Nobody blames you for freaking out. I woulda done it, too.”

Enjolras just sighed, and shrugged again. “The whole point was figuring out who he is. I didn’t do that. The whole thing was pointless.”

“It wasn’t pointless, Enj,” he said. “Now we know how deep this whole thing goes.”

“I guess.” Enjolras wasn’t convinced. He still felt like the whole thing had been a failure. This man could be dangerous for them, and it was Enjolras’ job to find out who he was so that they could figure out what to do next. He had failed all of his friends, and for what? Because he was uncomfortable? It was idiotic.

  
“You need to get out of your own head,” Bahorel told him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were trapped in a room with a psychopath, man.”

A psychopath… Enjolras couldn’t stomach the description. That man in there hadn’t felt psychopathic. He has just felt… Well, in all honesty, he had just felt sad. Enjolras had looked into his eyes and seen pure loss. It didn’t make any sense. He knew this man was dangerous. He knew. But when they had talked, the overwhelming feeling that had filled him was.. warmth. This man felt familiar to him, felt safe, felt friendly. He had never met him before, but Enjolras had trusted him. That was what had scared him. That was what made him run. He had seen a blush on the man’s face, and he’d wanted to touch him. It was terrifying.

“Enjolras? Enjolras. Buddy?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, sorry. Lost in thought.” Enjolras forced himself to put the thoughts aside.

“It’s okay…” Bahorel gave him a worried look. “We’re here.” They’d reached the apartment, and Enjolras hadn’t even noticed. He felt a flush of embarrassment rise up his neck.

“Right. Thank you.” He smiled, hoping it was reassuring, and stepped out of the cab. Bahorel paid the driver, and he sped away.

“So… what are we telling them?” he asked, hand pausing on the door to the building.

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair. What should he tell them? Inside Bahorel’s apartment, Les Amis were all waiting for news. They wanted to know the guy’s name. They wanted to know what he wanted. They wanted to know what to do. Enjolras didn’t have answers. “I-” he faltered. Speechlessness was something that never happened to him, but right now, he had no words.

Bahorel gave him a sympathetic look, and said, “I can handle the talking if you want.” Bless him. Enjolras managed a nod. “Okay. Come on, lets go inside.”

The elevator was broken, as it had been for months, so the pair took the stairs. Enjolras trailed behind Bahorel, lost in his own thoughts. They reached the apartment more quickly than he would have liked. Steeling himself, he nodded. Bahorel unlocked the door, and together they stepped inside.

Voices around the room erupted in question the instant they entered. For the first time in his life, Enjolras ignored the people looking to him for answers. He went directly towards Combeferre, instead. His friend’s eyes were full of worry as he slumped onto the couch beside him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low. Enjolras just shook his head. It did little to ease the worry on Combeferre’s face. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he mumbled, resting his head on Combeferre’s shoulder. His hand instantly found Enjolras’ hair, scratching soothingly at his scalp. It was a gentle, understanding gesture. It said ‘It's okay. Things will be alright. I’m here.’

Bahorel explained what had happened at the jail as accurately as he could without sending everyone into a frenzy. When it was mentioned that the man knew Gavroche, Eponine’s eyes seemed to light up in something akin to anger. Beside her, Marius frowned. “Gavroche doesn’t even go to meetings. How would he have met him?”

“I don’t know,” Bahorel admitted. “I don’t know how he knew any of the stuff he did.”

“If he touches my brother I’ll fucking kill him,” Eponine snarled. Cosette placed a gentle hand on her arm, but it very clearly didn’t calm her.

“Nobody’s gonna let Gav get hurt,” Bahorel promises. “We’ll keep him safe. I swear it.”

She nodded jerkily. Enjolras felt slightly sick watching the whole thing. Everyone seemed scared, but he couldn’t make himself share the feeling. “I want to go home,” he mumbled, only loud enough for Combeferre to hear. Instantly, he nodded.

“Enjolras and I are gonna head home,” he announced, standing up. “Courf?”

Courfeyrac stood quickly. “Of course. Goodnight, guys. Stay safe, okay?”

The group all voiced their agreements, wishing them a good night. Enjolras shuffled across to the door without a word. He gave a tiny wave, and the three of them made their way out.

____________________________________________________________________________

“So. You aren’t scared of this guy?” It was Courfeyrac who asked it. His brows were knit together in concern, eyes trained on Enjolras. The three of them were sitting on Combeferre and Enjolras’ livingroom floor, trying to work over the situation.

Enjolras nodded weakly. “He just… He didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt me.”

“Sometimes people lie, Enj..” Combeferre said, looking equally as concerned as Courfeyrac. “He might have been trying to make you trust him.”

“I don’t think so,” he insisted. “He looked scared. I’m telling you, there was something in his eyes.” Enjolras couldn’t get those eyes out of his head. Brown, bordering on hazel, and filled with something chaotic. He had seemed almost lost, like someone who didn’t know where he was or why he was there. It was a look like one might find in the eyes of a child who had wandered away from their mother.

The other two were silent, exchanging glances. He just wished they would say something. Eventually, Combeferre stood. “I’m going to get a glass of water,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. Enjolras watched him go with slumping shoulders.

“Courf?” he looked to Courfeyrac with somewhat pleading eyes.

Courfeyrac seemed to shift uncomfortably under the look. “I don’t know what to say, Enj. Every bell in my head is saying that we should stay away from this guy. But,” he sighed softly, “I would trust you with my life. If you say you’re getting a different vibe…We can pursue it if you want.”

Enjolras sighed with relief, feeling as though a weight was taken from his shoulders. “Thank you, Courf. Thank you.” In his mind, he was already formulating plans to return to the jail. If he had help, maybe he could figure out what the hell was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you feel like Enjolras is too OOC in this chapter? Lemme know!


	5. Chapter Five

Grantaire was in hell. That was what he had decided, after he had been dragged back to his cell; when he had been dragged away from his Apollo. Certainly, he had died. They had all fallen at the barricade, and Grantaire had ended up in hell. It was the only thing that made sense. He had known for years, of course, that when he finally died he would end up in hell. Of course he’d known. After all, what had he done in his life to earn a better fate? Not much of anything. But, in all his years, Grantaire had never imagined hell would be like this. He had always accepted what most people described hell to be: fire, and torture, and darkness, and pain. Not… whatever this was. This was so much worse than the fire ever could have been. 

Enjolras had been so close. Close enough that he could have touched him. Closer than he remembered him ever being in life. And yet he had still slipped through his fingers. Grantaire hated himself for that. He wondered if he would see him again. Would that be his torture? To never know his Apollo again? Or would he return, once again just out of reach? Grantaire was certain that he wouldn’t be able to handle either. 

For what may have been the first time in his life, Grantaire felt himself longing for the way they used to fight. It had always seemed too cruel, too painful, in the moment. But now? He would give anything to at least hear Enjolras’s voice again. Even if that voice was screaming at him. 

The slat on the door to his cell opened, and Grantaire’s head snapped up. What could they possibly want from him now? He recognized the face of one of the guards through the small opening. “Looks like it’s your lucky day.” Grantaire blinked at him uncomprehendingly. Lucky? Nothing about this situation seemed to involve good luck. “aThe charges against you are being dropped,” he continued, and Grantaire’s mouth fell open. 

“I beg your pardon!” Surely, this was some sort of trick. “Monsieur, don’t mock me now.” 

The man shook his head, and stepped away from the door. The slat shut once more. For a moment, Grantaire assumed that was the end of it. The ruse was up now, and he could return to wallowing in his sorrow. But then the door opened. And all he could do was stare in shocked silence. They were letting him go? Truly? Why? It made no sense. “...I am free to go?” he asked, tentative. Part of him still expected the man to laugh and slam the door, revealing that it had all been a cruel joke. But no laughter came, and the door remained open. It was baffling. 

“We have to process the paperwork, and you have to sign everything, but then yes. You are free to go.” He gestured for Grantaire to step into the hall. Numbly, he did so. The lights above were still blindingly bright, but somehow it was more tolerable when he wasn’t caged away. He followed the man down the hall, into another small room. But, this time, the door remained open. There was a desk in the center of the room, with a rather angry looking man sat behind it. The plaque on his desk read “Police Inspector Javert”. He made every hair on Grantaire’s body stand up; his instincts told him to run, but instead he forced himself to take a seat in the stiff chair on his side of the desk. 

“Monsieur Grantaire,” the man began, staring in such a way that Grantaire wanted to shrink away from his eyes. “You are being relieved of the charges that have been pressed against you. Do you understand?” He nodded meekly, and the Inspector continued. “Good. The owners of the establishment in which you were discovered have asked me to inform you that it is only at the request of one of your associates that your charges are being dropped, and that they consider this to be a personal favor to that individual. Not yourself. Therefore, if you are found in their establishment after hours again, they will ensure that the charges pressed against you remain in place. Is that clear?” 

In all honesty, Grantaire was baffled. An associate? He didn’t have associates. Who could have advocated for him, when his friends so clearly did not recall him? None of it made any sense, but he knew better than to question it. If he were to do that, he would risk ending up back in that cell. Confusion was hardly worth that risk. “Perfectly clear, Inspector. You have my thanks.” From the look on the Inspector’s face, he didn’t want Grantaire’s thanks in the slightest. 

“This form is an acknowledgement of the terms of your release. Read it and sign where indicated,” he instructed, sliding a paper towards Grantaire. To his credit, he did try to read it. However, very little of it made sense and he eventually gave up on trying to decipher the meaning. He signed on the line, and slid the paper back. 

“Thank you. You will find our lobby to your left. Your associate is waiting to escort you.” With a wave of his hand towards the door, Javert dismissed him. Grantaire, head swimming with questions, stood and made his way out the door. 

Who was this mysterious ‘associate’? It stood to reason that, seeing as none of his friends whom he had already encountered seemed to recognize him, none of them would. And certainly his family was not going to rescue him. His father had been more than glad to wash his hands of his ‘useless, embarrassment of a son’ the moment he had left for Paris. So, if not friends, and if not family, then who? And, beyond that, what did they want? Would they be expecting some sort of payment for their services? Grantaire certainly had no money. He took a shaky breath as he reached the door leading to the lobby. It wasn’t as though he had a choice; he had to go out there and meet whatever fate was waiting for him. But that didn't mean he had to like it. Prepared for the worst, he pushed open the door. 

He saw him instantly. Eyes wide with shock, he called out, “Enjolras?” The man had his back turned, but whirled around the moment Grantaire called his name. Their eyes met, and he felt simultaneously like he was drowning and being saved. His feet carried him forward without permission. 

“Hi.” Enjolras smiled at him awkwardly, and even though it was about the most pathetic smile Grantaire had ever seen, he had also never seen anything more beautiful. 

“...you came to retrieve me,” he whispered, still so unsure of the fact. 

He nodded, and said, “I think we need to talk. And I figured jail wasn’t the best place to do it.” He glanced around their surroundings with disdain, and added, “I don’t think either of us wants to be here any longer than necessary. Shall we?” 

“Where?” It hit him suddenly that he had nowhere to go. The world was so different, so frightening; he doubted his apartment still stood. 

“I share an apartment with Combeferre,” Enjolras told him, and he had to bite back an ‘I know.’ Saying it would help nothing. “I thought we could talk there?” 

Grantaire had never been inside Enjolras’ apartment. He had never even dreamed of being able to enter, let alone being invited. Instantly, he nodded. “Yes. I would like that very much.” 

“Cool.” He nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable, and said, “Come on, then. Courf’s holding the cab.” 

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “Courfeyrac is here?” 

“Oh. Yeah. He insisted on coming with me. Didn’t want me coming alone.” Enjolras looked embarrassed by the fact. “I tried to tell him I was fine, but…” 

“I would expect nothing less of the man,” he admitted. “He was always overtly protective of those he cared for.” 

It was clear by Enjolras’ expression that he had nothing to respond with, so the pair made their way outside in silence. Grantaire’s head spun as he took everything in. Everything moved so fast that he found it impossible to keep his eyes on any one thing for more than a moment. Instead, he focused on Enjolras’ curls as they made their way through the crowd. He wore his hair down, no ribbon in sight. Though it was quite the change from what he was used to, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel that it suited him rather well. 

They approached the curb, where one of the fast traveling carriages waited. Before he could do much of anything, the door flew open and a figure jumped out of the back. Grantaire recognized him in an instant: Courfeyrac. Aside from his clothes, he looked exactly the same. His hair was just as dark and unruly as it had always been, and the collage of freckles that was scattered across his face remained as well. “So,” he said, looking at Grantaire as though he was sizing him up for a fight. “You’re the guy who gave Musichetta a heart attack.” 

Grantaire winced, and looked down at his shoes. “I am deeply sorry for any fright I caused her. It was never my intention to do so.” 

“We can talk about this when we get home,” Enjolras said. Though he ushered Grantaire into the fast carriage, the words were clearly directed towards Courfeyrac. The other man sighed, and climbed in after them. 

The journey to Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment was a silent, awkward one. Grantaire was beginning to get a headache from looking out the window, and so ended up with his eyes shut for most of the time. When they arrived, it shocked him to find that he knew exactly where they were. “This is your apartment!” he gasped, only realizing a moment later how stupid that must have sounded to the two with him who didn’t understand. Both Enjolras and Courfeyrac were staring at him as though he was a mad man.

“...yes,” Enjolras said, tentatively. “Should we go in now?” 

“Yes, of course.” Blushing with embarrassment, Grantaire nodded. Enjolras opened the front door to the building, which was still the same save for some cosmetic changes, and began leading them up the stairs. He could feel Courfeyrac’s eyes on his back the entire time. 

When they reached Enjolras’ apartment, he quickly unlocked the door. Grantaire hesitated before entering. It felt so incredibly strange to be invited into his Apollo’s personal space. Never before would such a thing have happened. And yet here they were. With trembling hands, he stepped over the threshold.

Combeferre, it seemed, was waiting for their arrival. Grantaire instantly recognized his face. “You’re back early,” he greeted, setting down the book he had clearly been reading before their arrival. 

“Traffic wasn’t as bad as I was expecting,” Enjolras explained, shutting the door behind them. Grantaire awkwardly stood off to the side, unsure what to do. 

“Do you want to sit?” Enjolras offered, gesturing to an armchair across from the couch. Trying to avoid seeming rude, instead of an actual desire to sit, compelled him to take the offer. Seeming satisfied, Courfeyrac sat beside Combeferre, and Enjolras in the other armchair. All eyes turned to him. 

Grantaire had no idea what he was supposed to say. There was no string of words than any language could produce to explain his situation. Not well, anyway. He stayed silent, staring at his feet. 

Eventually, Combeferre broke the silence, “My name is Combeferre. This is Courfeyrac, and Enjolras. You already knew that, correct?”

He nodded, but offered no elaboration. 

“Okay.” He waited patiently for more, but when he received nothing he continued on. “You know us, but we don’t know you. Could you tell us your name?” 

Grantaire sighed softly, and looked up at him. “I am Grantaire. My friends used to know me as R.” The words ‘used to’ cut him like a knife. 

“Grantaire,” Combeferre repeated. “Nice to meet you.” 

Once more, Grantaire said nothing. 

“Okay, no.” Courfeyrac shook his head, annoyance dripping from his voice. “Can we cut the crap, here?”

“Courf-” Enjolras tried, but Courfeyrac didn’t stop. 

“We all know this is fucking weird. So can we actually get to the point? We all know what we’re here for.” 

Nobody could argue with that statement. Courfeyrac was right, of course. And, honestly, Grantaire sided with him completely. The polite, hesitant way the other two were treating him was more painful than if they would just question him. 

“I believe the Monsieur de Courfeyrac is correct,” he said. “Forgive me for my boldness, but it is clear that you did not bring me here for pleasantries. Ask what you wish to.” 

Enjolras stared at him with slightly wide eyes, and Grantaire forced him to hold the eye contact firmly. He just wanted to get this over with. Being treated like a stranger that one had to be civil with was slowly killing him. 

“...okay.” Enjolras nodded slowly. “Okay. We do have questions, you’re right.” 

“Then ask them.” 

With a side glance at Combeferre, Enjolras took a breath. “Where should we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert doesn't like the barricade boys in this any more than he did in canon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Hopefully more to come soon.


End file.
